


Economy of Motion

by buttercups3



Series: May Your Days be Porny and Bright [4]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, Potential spoilers for early season 2, Prompt Fill, Swordfighting, public sex (if in front of cows counts)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-04 01:09:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bored of everyday life in Willoughby, Rachel asks Miles for a lesson in swordfighting. Of course, ALL of the swords end up coming out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Economy of Motion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [valantha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valantha/gifts).



> Prompter: valantha  
> Prompt: MilesxRachel: Miles gives Rachel some pointers on sword-swinging, which leads to a make-out session (or more)...it went to MORE.
> 
> A HUGE thank you to dareyoutoread for ALL the swordfighting expertise (there's a tiny, hidden homage to "Full House" for you, love.) Any mistake that appears here is due to my own lack of understanding, not her incredibly detailed instructions. Also she said Miles’ right sword is rapier-like, but that just made the prose too clunky, so here it IS a rapier…Anyway, most of you are probably in it for the sex!

Willoughby is not exactly an engrossing town, unless you enjoy local gossip, cattle, or cornfields. Rachel should know, she grew up here – had exhausted each of its limited offerings by a young age, from Mr. Shepard’s workbench, where she first learned to manipulate tools, to “Insect Copse” where she’d dug up and pinned innumerable specimens, to the shadowy corners where she’d made out with a litany of illicit, pimpled boyfriends. So to pass the current time as she is recovering – what with Charlie gone, Aaron busy making moon eyes at Cynthia, and the more-taciturn-than-ever Miles being her chief form of distraction (if one could call the five words he manages to string together in a ten-hour period _distraction_ ) – she decides to ask Miles to divert her with something he’s good at: swordfighting.

At first, his furrowed brow intimates reluctance – perhaps in that way that magicians are loath to demystify their tricks – but he warms when Rachel alludes to the potential reward of revisiting her old make-out holes. Actually, his black eyes dance at this suggestion.

Though she finds his two-sworded technique unassailably cool, he insists that she begin with one, or rather, initially, with _none_. Thus, here they stand in a crusty-grassed pasture, frigid wind whipping the flaps of their coats, and cows lowing off to their right. There’s something very old-West romantic about the scene.

“Front foot forward, rear foot at forty-five degrees,” Miles grunts, observing her with his arms crossed. He shakes his head. “No, heels like this,” he corrects, sliding his own leg in between hers and kicking her back heel in line with the front. “Good.”

“Hm, one minute into this lesson, and you’re already manhandling me.” A corner of her mouth migrates upward, but Miles looks quizzical, cranky even. He’s not a very patient teacher. His look makes her genuinely laugh out loud, and she can't remember the last time she did that.

“Glad you think it’s funny. In a fight, incorrect footwork’ll open you to attack, maybe even tangle you up and send you down. _That_ would be funny.” Now _he_ cracks a minute, somewhat sadistic smile.

“When do I get to hold your swords?”

“Later,” he barks. “Shifting which foot’s in front – either front or back – is a volte. Just don’t…yeah, don’t do that,” he warns, his strong arms encircling her as she stumbles from accidentally crossing her feet. “You’re not very good at this.” After he’s helped her right herself, he takes a step back, brows exceedingly grumpy.

“Well, you’re not very encouraging!”

“Try again. _Please_ …?” He resists a smile.

She snorts and practices.

“M-Kay. We’re just going to skip circling for now, cuz you really suck, and I just feel sorry for you.”

“Didn’t you used to train Marine recruits, not to mention the whole Monroe Militia? You should be a better instructor.”

“I’m an awesome instructor,” Miles objects, drawing his right sword with a satisfying _sliiiip_ of metal. “If you care, this right one's called a rapier – I use it to cut _and_ stab – and the left one’s a saber – cutting only. We’ll start with the rapier.”

“Of course I _care_ ; why do you think I asked for lessons?”

He cocks an eyebrow and hands her the rapier by its hilt. “Don’t – _ak!_ – don’t point the blade at me or yourself, ok? Also, when you’re fighting, you watch your opponent’s blade not their eyes. The eyes lie.”

As she gets used to the weight of the sword, Rachel squints at Miles’ dark eyes. For all his sass, there's a kindness there. She hopes that isn’t a lie.

He holds her stare for a moment and then sighs. It’s hard to say what about – her disappointing swordsmanship or just a lifetime of weariness catching up. He does look significantly older than he did as commanding officer of the Militia. His eyelids sag; his crows feet are more deeply etched; his neck is a bit loose. He’s always been beautiful to her, and somehow, for all his visible wear and tear, he’s only grown more picturesque, as if chiseled from stone by a master sculptor.

“So you still wanna do this, or should we take it elsewhere?” his voice cuts through her admiration.

“Hm?”

“You look like your mind’s on something else.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Sgt. Matheson. I’m just awaiting orders.”

He smirks at his old rank like he's missed it and then steps around behind Rachel, encircling her with his sturdy arms to help her position the sword.

“Parries or blocks. There are eight.”

“Eight? Jesus!”

“One…” Miles drones soothingly, as he drags her arms into each position, his spicy, river-whiskey scent filling her nostrils. She has to admit that at some point, she isn’t really listening…is thinking instead about how chilly the air is against her crotch, as want seeps all the way through her jeans, her rear warmed by the electric man-heat of Miles.

He whispers close to her ear, “Now you try on your own,” and steps away, leaving nothing but cold, vacant space about her.

He sticks out his lip when she just stands there lost. Then, he mimics the strokes, and she traces them with the sword.

“Yeah. Not terrible for a first try,” he approves. “Except the last parry is pretty shitty in combat. We almost never use it. Now we can work on correcting basically everything about what you just did.”

“So it was terrible.”

“Everybody’s terrible at first,” he shrugs, and covers her hand with his big, callused one. “Charlie was, too.”

Rachel cringes inexplicably at the mention of her daughter, but it does serve to redirect her attention to the task at hand.

“You're swinging the point of your sword around too much. When you move between parries, you want your point to move the least amount possible: economy of motion. Your sword is strongest when it’s an extension of your arm. Keep your elbow tucked in.” He accidentally grazes her boob, as he folds in her arm, and kind of tilts his head at her like – _Well, worse mistakes have happened_. It makes her grin.

“You’re so far from ready for attacks, but since that’s the part everybody wants to learn, and I don’t want to demoralize you on your first lesson, let’s move on.”

“Yay!”

Miles chuckles and shakes his head. “Yay.”

He draws his other sword, and Rachel can’t help but drool a tad at the sight.

“Cuts. Straight down at the head,” he demonstrates on her head from a safe distance, “forty-five degrees down at the shoulders, straight across the torso, forty-five up at the legs, and straight up at the nut sac.”

“I like the nut sac one.”

“Everyone does,” Miles assures, replacing his sword in its scabbard, and helping her to copy the attacks.

He’s much closer to her this time, not an inch between their bodies, and Rachel’s brain starts to swim again. Maybe his does too, because at some point, he’s in the middle of explaining something and drifts dreamily off. When she looks back at him, he’s staring rather bluntly at her hair, like he’s thinking about entwining his fingers in it.

“Miles?” She lets the sword fall to her side without thinking, and he has to do an evasive side step to avoid getting clipped.

He doesn't even criticize her for it - just scratches his head. “At this point, I would move on to thrusting.” 

“What!?” she almost shrieks.

“You know, stabs,” he fights a massive smirk.

She deflates back against him and buries her face in his neck, breathing in, passing his rapier back into his right hand. “I think I know what you mean.” 

He sheaths the sword and gathers her in for a long hug, one hand gliding down her hair in his customary fashion. He kisses her forehead.

“Just so you know, if you’re ever in a fight, knee to groin works best. Forget the sword.” He lifts up her chin with his index finger to gaze intently into her eyes.

She quirks an eyebrow. “Got it.” Burrowing her cold hand beneath his shirt, she strokes the fur of his belly and feels him suck in and harden.

“Uhh,” he exhales. “We gonna do this here? The cows’ll see.”

“They’re not as innocent as you think.” Rachel runs her hand down and over Miles’ jeans-clad crotch.

He squeezes his eyes and mouths, “Fuck,” in ecstasy.

Slouching down to face level, he kisses her with lips chapped by the sun and wind. Their tongues meet, and she involuntarily sighs into his mouth. Miles is not the world’s most patient fuck, so that's it for him. He sinks down onto his knees and pulls open her pants, the icy air smacking her wetness. She gets nervous someone will see and gazes frantically around, until his tongue probes her through the cotton of her panties. Then, she almost bites the inside of her lip.

Her knees begin to give way, and she melts into his face. At last, he ushers her onto grass that feels like needles poking her ass, but oh well. She’s not about to stop now. In record time, he’s got off her shoes, pants, and underwear, and his dick out. It strikes her as almost laughably obscene when he lifts her legs onto his shoulders, her woolen socks hoisted high in the air, and enters her in the middle of an open field. But _holy fucking crap_ , do the ridges of his dick feel amazing against her opening and inside of her, and _Oh God_ – that sensation of him thudding against her cervix always assuages some deep ache she doesn’t know she has until he begins.

It’s really dangerous that they’re not taking precautions, she knows. But it’s so hard to care about _anything_ these days, and she does care how good it feels when he comes inside her – which is happening now, him grunting and panting and collapsing onto her, so she jams her own hand down between them, forcing herself to climax with him. Her high engulfs her entire body – twisting her up and then wringing her out – as he continues spasming wantonly within her, cum dribbling out onto the skin of her thighs. For a full minute afterward, he continues to be gripped by residual muscle contractions, each one unleashing a fresh wave of pleasure in her. So apparently, a swordfighting lesson amounts to epic foreplay. Neither of them can seem to stop reveling in their orgasms, even as his dick softens within her.

Finally, Miles buries his face in her neck, heavy on her like a pile of warm rocks. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” She kisses his sweaty chestnut crown. 

“I shouldn’t be coming in you. It just feels so…” 

“I know.” 

“But if I get you pregnant…” 

“I know.” 

Miles is quiet for a long while, until he turns and whispers in her ear: “Thrusting was my favorite part of the lesson.”

She lolls her head to the side and notices that a cow has approached startlingly close to them, munching on the coarse, dry grass. “Mine too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta-ed as usual, and I've done a shit ton of writing this weekend, so shout out the typos!


End file.
